


Give the Kid an Oscar

by whumphoarder



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Sick Peter Parker, Sick Tony Stark, Sickfic, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 22:51:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16796248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: Poor kid—he looks utterly miserable. And if anyone should know how much migraines suck, it’s Tony.





	Give the Kid an Oscar

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дайте этому парню Оскар](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16919283) by [8salfeti8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8salfeti8/pseuds/8salfeti8)



Peter is looking... off. Usually he bounces around the lab—bright-eyed and eager to assist with whatever projects Tony will let him, hanging on the man’s every word. But today he just sits on his stool and stares straight ahead with glazed-over eyes while Tony explains how to connect one of the circuits in the Spider-Man suit.

“Hey.” Tony snaps his fingers twice in front of the kid’s face. “You still with me?”

Peter winces at the sound. ”Yeah. Sorry.”

“You alright, kid?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter mutters as he rubs at his eyes with one hand. “What were you saying?”

Tony repeats his instructions and Peter correctly connects the wires, so Tony moves back to his own project. Aside from repairing a malfunctioning speaker for the training facility and fixing a couple bugs in the new Starkphone set to roll out next month, he’s also working on a complete overhaul for Rhodey’s leg braces. Tony’s goal is to finish building the new model before Christmas so he can surprise his friend with them, but he’s finding the design process especially tedious today. He presses his thumb to a spot just above his eye in an effort to stop the throbbing.

Ten minutes of digital drawings—and the subsequent deleting of those drawings—later, he’s no closer to a design than when he started. In frustration, he looks over to see Peter with his eyes shut and elbows propped up on the table, head resting in his hands.

Tony stands up and crosses over to him. “Hey.” He taps the kid’s shoulder. “You nodding off on me?”

Peter looks up slowly, blinking at him. His eyes are dull and unfocused and he lowers one arm down to snake it around his stomach. “Sorry,” he mutters through a wince.

Tony frowns. “Are you sick or something?”

He shakes his head slightly. “Just tired.”

“You didn’t eat much for lunch either,” Tony points out as he swallows down the acidic taste that’s creeping up his own esophagus.

Peter grimaces at the mention of food. “Wasn’t hungry,” he mumbles back.

Tony’s frown deepens. “Your stomach bothering you?”

Peter just shrugs. He swallows hard before asking in a very small voice, “Do you have any Tylenol?”

Considering the kid hardly ever admits to not feeling good, Tony is instantly on the alert. “Why? You got a fever?”

“I dunno.” Peter shrugs again, so Tony presses a hand to Peter’s forehead. It doesn’t feel hot, but a shiver runs through the kid anyway and rather than squirm away, Peter leans into the touch.

“Well, you’re not warm,” Tony says slowly. “Does your head hurt?”

Peter hesitates a second and then gives a slight nod. “‘S’bright in here, isn’t it?” he murmurs.

Tony’s starting to think he might know what’s going on. “FRIDAY, take the lights down by fifty percent,” he says in a low voice.

The lights instantly dim and Tony can’t help but breathe out in relief as the room suddenly loses much of its artificial harshness. He gives Peter’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’ll go find you some painkillers.”

Given how much time he spends in the lab, Tony keeps a good supply of various over the counter drugs available here. He skips the Tylenol altogether and goes straight for the Excedrin, dosing out two tablets for the kid and then discretely popping three himself in the hopes it will end the pounding in his own skull. After grabbing two bottles of water from the small fridge, he heads back over to Peter.

The teenager looks decidedly worse now and is hunched forward in his seat, both arms wrapped around his middle and swallowing convulsively. Tony’s stomach gives a lurch and he instantly grabs a trash can to set it down in front of Peter.

Peter grunts in acknowledgement.

Tony uncaps one of the water bottles and passes it to him. “You ready for meds?” he asks as Peter takes a cautious sip. “Or do you wanna wait a bit?”

Peter lowers the bottle and swallows again, eyeing the trash can nervously. “Um… I’ll wait. Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Tony agrees, slipping the pills into his pocket. He uncaps the other bottle and takes a drink—he hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was until now. “C’mon, let’s get you laying down.”

Peter must really be feeling miserable because he doesn’t protest at all to the suggestion of leaving the lab. He just picks up the trash can from the floor and hugs it to his chest as he shuffles along after his mentor, eyelids half-closed.

Tony mutters for FRIDAY to dim the lights as they go, so it’s blissfully dark and quiet outside the lab. When they reach the end of the hall, Tony turns left to head off to the guest room.

Peter stops walking. “Oh,” he mumbles. “I thought…” he trails off. “Never mind.”

“Thought what?” Tony prompts.

Peter looks down. “I just thought we were going to the couch.”

Tony quirks an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t your bed be more comfortable?”

Peter hesitates just a second too long to be believable. “Yeah I guess…” he mumbles. He opens his mouth and takes a breath like he’s going to say something else but then shuts it. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees again instead.

Tony huffs out a sigh; if past experience with Peter is anything to go off of, they could end up doing this back and forth thing for another ten minutes before the kid finally admits what he wants. Tony doesn’t feel like playing that game today. “Couch it is,” he decides, steering Peter to the right.

It was evidently the right choice because Peter closes his eyes for a second and whispers, “Thanks.”

Once in the common area, Tony nudges Peter onto the sofa, positioning the trash can on the floor near him. The kid immediately curls up against the armrest, face scrunched up in pain.

“How’s your stomach?” Tony asks quietly as he tugs one of the many throw blankets down to cover Peter. “Think you can keep the pills down now?”

Peter grimaces as he pulls the blanket up to his chin. “I dunno…”

“Alright, we can try later.” Tony moves back away from the couch. “I’ll tell FRIDAY to keep the rest of the team from disturbing you. Just let her know if you need anything.”

Peter’s face seems to fall. “Oh. You’re not—” he starts, then cuts himself off. “Okay.”

Tony’s getting a little exasperated now. “What, kid?”

“I just…” Peter hesitates.

Tony waves a hand in a 'go on' gesture.

Peter lowers his gaze as he picks at a piece of fuzz on the blanket. “I just…” He takes a deep breath and then bites his lower lip. When his voice comes out again, it’s so quiet that Tony barely registers it. “Can you stay?” he whispers.

Tony thinks for a moment of all the work he had planned to get done that afternoon between the designs and the piles of SI paperwork he’s been putting off and his knee-jerk reaction is to decline. But the kid looks so pathetic right now, wrapped up in that blanket and trembling just the tiniest bit, that it makes him pause.

“Please, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, his voice almost a whimper. “I… I don’t feel good.”

It’s so pitiful and uncharacteristic of Peter Once-Got-Stabbed-And-Hid-It-Three-Days Parker that Tony is caught off guard. “FRIDAY, what’s his temp again?” he asks in sudden concern.

“Peter’s current temperature is resting at 98.9 degrees, which is well within the normal range,” FRIDAY supplies.

Okay so that’s not it, but he probably should still be calling a doctor—the kid has a pain tolerance almost comparable to Tony’s own, so it’s really saying something if a mere headache has him reduced to this groveling ball of misery. But then again, if anyone should know how much migraines can suck, it’s Tony.

Finally, in a whisper, Peter admits it:

“I don’t wanna be alone.”

It’s not an admission as much as an entreaty. The kid looks so utterly vulnerable right now. Tony can see the pain in Peter’s eyes and the quiver of his lip and the way he’s clearly exhausted and Tony suddenly thinks ‘You know what? Fuck it’ to his piles of paperwork and backlog of projects. If Tony sitting on this couch is what it will take to get his sick kid some relief, then by golly, that is what he is going to do. Damn the Starkphone—the old model still blows the competitor out of the water—and Rhodey’s braces can be a Valentine’s Day gift for all he cares.

He scoots Peter’s feet over and sinks down into the sofa. The cushions envelop him instantly— _God_ , when was the last time he had just _sat_? On an actual couch rather than a office chair or lab stool. It’s heavenly.

“FRIDAY,” he says quietly. “Put on that one Disney movie he keeps asking me to watch. Reduced volume and brightness.”

As the animated film’s opening credits start to play on the screen, Peter tugs another blanket off the sofa and tosses it at his mentor with a small grunt.

Tony huffs back at him, but pulls the fuzzy blanket up around himself all the same. He’s pleasantly surprised at how nice it feels.

After watching Peter for a few minutes to make sure he’s settled, Tony shifts around a bit to lay against the cushions. He lets his eyes slip closed, which does wonders for the throbbing in his skull and the aching in his neck. Surrounded by the sound of the TV humming low in the background and the warmth of the blanket all around him, he finally drifts off.

**X**

Peter waits a good ten minutes, listening to Tony’s quiet snores, before slipping the blanket off and creeping out of the room to a nearby office where Pepper is typing up slides for an upcoming shareholders meeting.

When she glances up at him, he grins back. “You were right—it worked," he reports.

Pepper gives a relieved sigh. “ _Thank you_ ,” she says sincerely. “I can’t even tell you how many times I tried to get him to take a break. Pretty sure he’s had that migraine for the past 48 hours.”

“Yeah, it seemed like it was getting worse,” Peter agrees. After a beat, he huffs out a laugh. “I’m glad he gave in when he did—at one point I thought I was gonna have to start crying.”

Pepper raises her eyebrows at him. “Can you cry on command?”

“Um, of course,” Peter scoffs, throwing her a look of mock indignation. “You don’t make the role of Townsperson #7 in the middle school spring musical without _some_ acting chops.”

“Alright, DiCaprio,” she says with a laugh. “Now get back in there and lay down before he wakes up and figures out what we’ve done. I’m hoping he can get a couple hours in at least.”

Peter laughs. “Alright.” He starts to turn around, but a thought occurs to him and he stops. “You should come too,” he invites. “We have plenty of blankets and couch space and we’re watching Big Hero 6.”

Still smiling, Pepper shakes her head sadly. “Thanks for the offer, Peter, but I really do need to get this finished.”

Peter shrugs. “Alright, just an idea,” he says before turning and heading out of the office.

But right before Peter gets to the door, he turns back around to look at Pepper. His eyes are redder now and he’s blinking back tears. “Ms. P-Potts?” he whimpers, lip trembling and swaying on his feet slightly. “Can you-” He cuts himself off with a hard swallow and wraps one arm around his stomach. “Sorry, I know you’re busy, I just…” Sniffing, Peter wipes at his nose with the back of his other hand. “I, uh… Can you walk me back?” A tear slips down his cheek and his breath hitches. “I-I’m not feeling very good, and—”

“Alright, alright.” Pepper rolls her eyes. She unplugs the laptop from its charger and gets to her feet. “You’ve made your point.”

Grinning smugly, Peter brushes the tear away with his sleeve. “I deserve an Oscar,” he says as they make their way back to the common area.

**X**

Thirty minutes later, Peter carefully removes the open computer from Pepper’s lap and sets it on the coffee table. He then gently lays a blanket over her sleeping form before curling back up on his end of the sofa to finish watching the movie across from the two snoozing adults.

Peter’s work here is done.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to leave a comment!! I love hearing your thoughts on the story (or life in general).
> 
> If you ever wanna chat or if you've written any Irondad fics you'd like to share with me, you are always more than welcome to hit me up on tumblr at whumphoarder. (Seriously, I won't think it's weird—I love it when people send me their fics).


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